27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

RICHARD

I watch her face, and her shock is almost tangible. No matter how hard someone tries to escape their past, genuine shock like this can’t be faked.

I reach for my phone, and open the memorial page of Angie Swayer, the one Emily had dug up earlier. I show her a picture – a snapshot of her engagement ceremony with Liam.

Her eyes widen, yet, in a blink, she masks it, and I know another lie is about to roll off her tongue. Every time she opens that mouth to lie, I think about all the other ways I could keep it occupied.

“I wanted to forget him, you know,” she mutters. “They say if you keep saying it, you might just believe it.”

I scoff at her feeble attempt to downplay the significance of the photograph.

“Forget? Or conveniently pretend it never happened?”

She avoids my gaze, and I press on. “You don’t just forget an engagement, Izel. What are you hiding?”

“I was drunk, or maybe it was a joke. It doesn’t mean anything.”

I lean in, our faces inches apart. “I’ve seen lies. This isn’t just a drunken mistake. You can’t erase an engagement like it’s a bad night out.”

She glares at me. “Believe what you want. I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“Oh, you do,” I retort, the weight of her lies pressing on my patience.

“Why?” she challenges, a scoff in her tone. “Because we fucked?”

Her casual dismissal stings, as if our encounter meant nothing. But I don’t let it show. Instead, I hit her with the truth.

“No, baby, because Liam was found dead in his bedroom right after you decided to walk away from the front door after breaking and entering,” I shoot back.

All color drains from her face, and in that moment, I catch genuine shock in her eyes. Her carefully constructed walls crumble, and it confirms what I suspected – she didn’t murder Liam. She stammers, searching for words, “I didn’t, I don’t know...”

“So, here’s the deal,” I say, leaning in. “My team hasn’t reported the murder of Liam yet. If you don’t start talking, I’ll be forced to put you down as the prime suspect this time.”

She gulps, and I can see the realization sinking in. I ask again, “Did you see anything?”

She shakes her head, and I press further, “Why were you there?”

“I told you,” Izel responds with a hint of frustration in her voice. “I was looking for a USB drive.”

“And what’s on this USB drive that’s so important?”

Izel hesitates, her eyes darting away. “It’s just some work files, okay? Nothing major.”

“Work files?” I raise an eyebrow. “You expect me to believe you risked everything for some work files? Come on, Izel, give me something real.”

She nibbles her lip, and it’s impossible not to notice. The way her hair falls messily around her face, the flush on her cheeks. For a second, all I want to do is forget this case, forget everything, and just lose myself in her.

I lean back, shaking off the distraction to refocus on business.

“I’m telling you the truth, Richard. That’s all I was there for.”

“Who do you think would want to hurt Liam?” I ask, steering the conversation back on track.

She thinks for a moment, then shakes her head. “I don’t know.”

“Who else knows about the USB drive?” I ask, changing tactics. “Did you tell anyone you were looking for it?”

She hesitates again, and I know I’ve hit a nerve. “No. I didn’t tell anyone.”

Yeah, right. There’s no fucking way she didn’t talk to someone.

“I need to check your phone,” I say, leaning in closer, making it clear this is happening whether she likes it or not.

Her head snaps up. “Do you have a warrant?”

I smirk, the corners of my mouth curling up. She really thinks she can throw legal shit at me right now?

“I want to check your phone as your boyfriend,” I assert. “So no, I don’t need a warrant.”

“You’re not my boyfriend.”

I lean back, grinning like I’ve already won. “After what we just did, I’d qualify as your husband. But looks like subtlety isn’t your strong suit.”

“Whatever,” she mutters, rolling her eyes again as she bends down to retrieve her phone from her bag. The deep red shade of her ass catches my eye—angry and flushed, the perfect contrast against her skin. She takes her time, clearly stalling the inevitable. When she hands it to me, I can see she’s tense. She knows I’m about to find something she doesn’t want me to see.

I unlock the phone and start scrolling through her apps, messages, emails. But it’s when I get to her search history that things get real fucking interesting. A list of searches flashes across the screen: “Zip ties for immobilization,” “anesthetic spray for numbing,” “blindfolds for sensory deprivation,” “muzzle gag for silence,” “ligature strangulation effects,” “injection sites for sedatives,” “hidden surveillance cameras.”

“Care to explain this?” I ask, turning the phone so she can see.

“It’s for research.”

“What kind of research?”

“For the books I read.”

I lean in, still holding her phone, fingers tapping the screen as I continue scrolling. “What kind of books are you reading?”

“I plead the fifth on that one.”

And just like that, I want to bend her over and fuck all that sass out of her.

“Fine,” I relent. “You can go.”

She looks shocked. “Just like that?”

I nod back at her, and she mumbles a reluctant “thanks.” She gets off the table, bending down to pick up her clothes. I follow suit, grabbing my shirt from the floor. We both start dressing in silence.

I fasten my belt, watching her from the corner of my eye as she pulls her shirt over her head.

Just as she’s about to turn and leave, she pauses. Her hand hovers over the doorknob, and without looking back, she speaks, “I’ve got a question.”

“Mhm?” I grunt, slipping my arms through my jacket sleeves, still half-focused on straightening out my cuffs.

She finally turns to face me, her head tilting slightly as her eyes move toward the two-way mirror. “Was there… was there really someone watching us?”

That gets my attention. My hands freeze mid-adjustment, and I glance up at her. There’s no way in hell I’d let anyone watch her like that—nobody gets to see her except me. “Check the news tomorrow. If you see any reports about dead FBI agents, courtesy of their boss, you’ll know the answer.”

Her mouth falls open for a second, then shuts again like she’s trying to decide if I’m joking. She clears her throat and mutters, “I’ll take that as a no,” before turning on her heel and walking toward the door.

I watch as she exits through the front door. But I’m not letting her leave alone. I follow, my hand gripping the frame for a second before I push myself off, watching the way she moves as she steps into the hallway. The door groans shut, and I exchange a look with Noah, who’s propped against the wall.

“What the hell, Rick?” Noah asks, his brow furrowed. “You just let her go? She could be the killer!”

I run a hand through my hair. “Noah, she didn’t kill Liam. I can fucking tell.”

“Just like that? You’re letting her walk away, and we’ve got nothing?” Colton snorts from across the room.

“Listen, asshole, I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you. I can smell a killer from a mile away.”

“You sure you’re not just pussy whipped, Rick? I mean, she practically walked out of here scot-free.”

My eyes narrow, a flash of anger crossing my features. “Don’t talk shit. Nothing gets in the way of my work. If I even had a whiff that Izel killed Liam, I’d be the first to throw her ass in jail. But I know she didn’t.”

I can’t escape the realization that if push comes to shove, I would protect Izel at all costs. Even if it means bending the rules, breaking the law, or pissing off my team.

Colton holds up a USB drive. “You might want to check what’s on this before coming to that conclusion.”

I snatch the USB from his hands, not bothering to mask my irritation, and storm into my office.

I plop down behind my cluttered desk, shoving aside some case files to make room. Plugging in the USB drive, I brace myself for whatever revelation awaits. The video stumbles to life, screeching and flickering like a shitty horror movie. I double-check the USB drive placement; it’s snug and correct. The screen keeps up its erratic dance.

If this thing contains anything that implicates Izel, I’m fucked. Not just professionally, but personally.

The screen finally comes to life, and I see Luna tied to a chair. I nearly jump out of my seat. She's groaning, clearly alive. I wipe the sweat off my brow.

“Oh, you're awake again,” the voice sneers.

A man steps into the frame. It’s Martin.

“Martin,” Luna says. “This is getting old. Can’t you think of a better way to spend your time?”

Martin sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Believe me, I’d rather be anywhere but here. But orders are orders.”

Luna rolls her eyes, shifting uncomfortably in the chair. “Well, while you’re here, how about some decent conversation? This whole kidnapping thing is so passé.”

They’re talking like they’re bored coworkers stuck in a meeting, not captor and captive. What the fuck is going on?

Martin pulls up a chair and sits across from her, looking almost as tired of this charade as Luna. “You know, you have a point. This isn’t exactly thrilling for me either. So, let’s talk. What’s new in the world of FBI agents these days?”

Luna raises an eyebrow. “How’d you guess?”

He smirks. “Come on, Luna. You think I’m stupid? I know who you are. Special Agent Luna Martinez, FBI.”

“Fair enough. And you’re Martin Montclair, professional pain in the ass. What’s your point?”

“My point is, why are you so interested in the Ghostface Striker case?” Martin leans forward.

Luna sighs. “It’s my job. I chase down the bad guys, and right now, Ghostface Striker is at the top of the list. What do you know about it?”

“More than you, apparently. Maybe I am the Ghostface Striker.”

Luna snorts, shaking her head. “You’re not.”

Martin frowns, clearly not liking being dismissed so easily. “What makes you so sure?”

Luna leans forward as much as her restraints allow, locking eyes with Martin. “Because I know who the Ghostface Striker is. And it sure as hell isn’t you.”

Her eyes suddenly dart to the door. “And speaking of the Ghostface Striker…”

Izel walks into view, and she looks between Luna and Martin. The screen suddenly goes blank.

“No! Fuck!” I slam my fist on the table, desperate for the video to revive. “Come on, come on…”

The screen stays black. My mind races, struggling to make sense of what I just saw. Izel... The Ghostface Striker. It can’t be true. It was supposed to be Will.

No, no, fuck no! I pound the table again, harder this time. This can’t be happening.

“She doesn’t have a motive,” I spit out. I push back from the table, pacing the room like a caged animal. “I know her. There’s no way she’s behind this.”

Colton is quiet, and that silence digs under my skin like a splinter. I turn to him, and I’m pretty sure my eyes are pleading for some sort of confirmation, something to prove that what I saw was a mistake. But Colton doesn’t give me the reassurance I’m desperate for. Instead, he walks over to his computer.

“Rick, you need to see something,” he says.

“I don’t need to see shit, Colton,” I snap. But he’s already pulling up files on his computer. I’m too wound up, too consumed by the idea that I might’ve missed something, to stop him.

Colton clicks on a folder labeled “Ava Montclair - 2004-DIS-3487” and pulls up a series of documents. My stomach churns as I see Ava’s name, then Izel’s, and then a bunch of details that shouldn’t be connected but suddenly are.

“Ava’s case was more complicated than we thought,” Colton says, scrolling through the files. “HPD sent over everything they had, including some psychological assessments. Ava abandoned Izel when she was just a child. Joined some cult, and then got killed within the cult.”

I grip the edge of the table, my knuckles turning white. “What does that have to do with Izel?”

Colton meets my gaze, his eyes filled with something I can’t quite place—pity, maybe. “There’s a theory here. The abandonment, the neglect… It could’ve had a severe psychological impact on Izel. We’re talking about deep-seated trauma, Rick. It’s possible that being left behind like that—by her own mother—could’ve triggered something dark.”

“No,” I growl, shaking my head. “No, you’re wrong.”

“Listen to me,” Colton insists. “Izel’s profile—it fits. We’ve seen cases where people snap because of something buried deep, something they’ve never dealt with. Ava’s death, the abandonment—it could’ve twisted her mind. She could’ve internalized the rejection and turned it into something violent.”

“No,” I whisper, almost to myself. “She’s not a killer. She can’t be.”

But even as I say it, doubt claws at me, and it feels like the ground is slipping from under my feet.

“She’s been at the center of every major killing spree,” Colton says softly. “We have to consider the possibility that she’s not just a victim in all of this.”

Before I can respond, Noah chimes in. “Rick, have you considered the possibility of Dependent Personality Disorder? DPD victims often have an overwhelming need to be taken care of, to the point where they become submissive and clingy, even to those who hurt them. But in some cases, it can manifest in more dangerous ways—like doing whatever it takes to eliminate those who seem to have the freedom and strength they lack.”

Colton pulls up files on his laptop. “Look at this, Rick,” he says, turning the screen towards me. “This is Izel’s history—or Isla’s, as she was known before she changed her name. Her grandfather was a tyrant. He tortured her, controlled every aspect of her life. She never had the freedom to do anything she wanted. Hell, he even broke off her engagement with Liam and shipped her off to London for further studies. It wasn’t about her education; it was about keeping her under his thumb.”

The information takes me back to the first time I profiled her. Izel’s fear, her submissiveness, her desperate need to please—it all starts to make sense. I remember how she used to flinch at my raised voice, how she’d freeze when I’d touch her, like she was waiting for the other shoe to drop. She’d agree to anything if she felt threatened, if she thought it would keep her safe.

Colton’s voice pulls me back to the present. “The victims, Rick—they were the ones who had a voice, who stood up for themselves, who were brave. That’s what she couldn’t be, and that’s why she’s targeting them. It’s like she’s erasing everything that she sees as a threat to her own survival.”

“No,” I say again, but the conviction in my voice is waning. I don’t want to believe it, but the pieces are falling into place, forming a picture I don’t want to see.

“Look at the facts. You’re a profiler. Profile her.”

But how can I? How can I be objective when every instinct I have is screaming that this can’t be true? Izel isn’t a monster. But the doubt is there, festering, and I can’t shake the fear that maybe, just maybe, I missed something. Maybe I was too close, too blind to see what she was hiding right in front of me.

Emily, standing silently by the side, finally speaks up. Her voice is cautious, as if she’s wary of how I might react. “Maybe this is why she’s after Luna.”

The thought blindsides me. The idea that Izel might be targeting her because Luna represents everything Izel was denied, everything she was forced to suppress, is too much to bear. Luna’s like a kid sister to me. The thought of Izel hurting her makes me sick to my stomach.

Emily tries to put a hand on my shoulder, but I jerk away. “Rick, we’ll figure this out.”

I shove my chair back, nearly toppling it. My hands are shaking as I try to process everything. Izel, the woman I thought I knew, the woman I fell for, is the goddamn Ghostface Striker. I expected her to be a victim or an accomplice, but a killer... It feels like my world is crashing down around me, and I can’t breathe.

“Rick, focus. We need to find her before she hurts anyone else.”

“Hurts anyone else?” I repeat. “What if she’s already hurt someone else? What if she’s… What if she’s still hurting Luna?”

The love I have for Izel, the emotional connection that’s been building, is suddenly overshadowed by the reality of what she might be capable of. The thought makes me look down at my badge. It’s like a switch flips inside me. I need to keep my cool. I need to find her and lock her up. No matter how much it hurts, no matter how much I feel like I’m dying inside.

“Emily,” I say. “Get on with finding the location of that warehouse. We need to know where she’s holding Luna. Look for any clues, any landmarks. And get a trace on her.”

Emily looks shocked for a moment, but then she snaps into action. “Got it,” she says, hurrying to get her system and start working.

Colton and Noah exchange glances but stay silent, knowing better than to question me right now.

Emily’s fingers fly over the keyboard. “I’m cross-referencing known locations with the data we’ve gathered on Izel’s movements and the video,” she explains. “It’ll take a minute, but I’ll find something.”

I nod, pushing the personal betrayal aside. I need to stay professional. I need to be the agent I trained to be. But fuck, it’s hard. Every image of Izel in my mind now feels tainted. Every touch, every kiss, now linked to a murderer’s hands.

“Come on, Emily, we need a lead here,” I bark.

“Hey, Rick, what if we check for fingerprints on that body found in Luna’s car? Might give us something,” Colton says.

I shoot him a look. “You’re not as dumb as you look, Colton. Make the call.”

Colton nods, grabbing his phone. Moments later, he looks up with a grim expression. “No fingerprints on the car, but the dead body has a match.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Whose body is it?”

Colton scratches his head. “Here’s the thing—there was no DNA on the body. But the artist just finished facial reconstruction, and they’re running it through the database now.”

“Let’s go,” I snap, already heading towards the door.

In the car, on our way to the police department, Emily is still wrestling with the video. It’s like the damn server just decided to take a sick day.

“The fuck’s going on, Emily?” I ask, glancing at her.

She grits her teeth, fingers pounding on the keyboard. “I don’t know, Rick. It’s like the whole system just took a dump.”

“Great, just fucking great,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair. We’re racing against time, and now the damn tech is failing us.

After we pull into the police department, I turn to Colton. “Get those results. I want to know who the hell that dead body is.”

I park my car at the entrance, staring at the mess of uniforms and ringing phones, but my ass doesn’t move. Colton’s already inside, probably neck-deep in the facial reconstruction shit.

I decide to sit tight in the car with Emily. If I get inside, I might just lose it on someone, and that’s not going to help Luna.

Emily’s still at it, but the video seems to be playing hide and seek with us.

“Run it again,” I demand.

She tries but it’s like the damn thing vanished into thin air. A blank screen mocks us, and I slam my hand on the glass.

“What the fuck is this? It was there, we saw it!”

Emily stammers, “I don’t know, Rick. It’s like the video was a one-time deal, here and gone.”

I clench my jaw, the situation slipping out of control. “Find something else. Anything!”

As Emily scrambles to salvage whatever data she can, my thoughts drift back to Izel. If I don’t talk to her soon, I’m going to lose my mind. After all, I let her walk out. I was a dumbass thinking she didn’t kill Liam. Probably having sex with her made me lose my ability to see through her expressions. I know I need to get hold of her before she skips town.

“Emily, keep working on that,” I order, already moving out of the car door. “I need to make a call.”

She nods as she works frantically. I get out of the car and punch Izel’s number into my phone, but it’s like she dropped off the face of the earth. Straight to voicemail. Impatience burns through me, and I hit redial, willing her to pick up. Nothing. My finger hovers over the screen, ready to dial again, when Colton’s name flashes on my phone.

I answer, and his voice is tight, nervous. “Rick, you need to come see this.”

I hang up without a word, shoving the phone back into my pocket. Whatever’s going on, it’s serious, and I need to get inside. The uniformed officer gestures for me to follow.

“Sir, this way,” he says.

Colton’s face tells me everything isn’t right as I walk into the room. He’s got that look, the one that says, “Brace yourself.” The sculpture is facing away from me, and I can’t see shit, but the vibe in the room is heavy.

I take a step closer, my eyes narrowing. He gestures toward the sculpture, and it’s like the floor drops from beneath me. The shock on my face must be unmatched because Colton’s eyes widen.

“Did you fuck this up?” I ask the artist.

“No mistake, Sir. That’s her face.”

Colton’s silent, but the look in his eyes tells me he’s as baffled as I am. I do a double take, shaking my head as if that’ll snap me out of this fucked-up nightmare.

“If this is Izel Montclair,” I force the words out, “then who the hell is the girl running around pretending to be her?”